place of wretchedness, and though we have lost a darling child, yet still you will find comfort in your other children when I shall be no more.” “We have indeed lost,” returned she, “a darling child. “My Sophia, my dearest, is gone, snatched from us, carried off by ruffians!”

“How, madam!” cried my fellow prisoner, “Miss Sophia carried off by villains, sure it cannot be?”

She could only answer with a fixed look and a flood of tears. But one of the prisoner’s wives who was present and came in with her, gave us a more distinct account: she informed us that as my wife, my daughter, and herself were taking a walk together on the great road a little way out of the village, a post chaise and pair drove up to them and instantly stopt. Upon which, a well drest man, but not Mr. Thornhill, stepping out, clasped my daughter round the waist, and forcing her in, bid the postillion drive on, so that they were out of sight in a moment.

“Now,” cried I, “the sum of my miseries is made up, nor is it in the power of anything on earth to give me another pang. What! not one left! not to leave me one! the monster! the child that was next my heart! she had the beauty of an angel, and almost the wisdom of an angel. But support that woman, nor let her fall. Not to leave me one!”

“Alas! my husband,” said my wife, “you seem to want comfort even more than I. Our distresses are great; but I could bear this and more, if I saw you but easy. They may take away my children, and all the world, if they leave me but you.”

My son, who was present, endeavoured to moderate her grief; he bade us take comfort, for he hoped that we might still have reason to be thankful.”—“My child,” cried I, “look round the world, and see if there be any happiness left me now. Is not every ray of comfort shut out; while all our bright prospects only lie beyond the grave!”—“My dear father,” returned he, “I hope there is still something that will give you an interval of satisfaction, for I have a letter from my brother George.” —“What of him, child,” interrupted I, “does he know our misery? I hope my boy is exempt from any part of what his wretched family suffers?”—“Yes, sir,” returned he; “he is perfectly gay, cheerful, and happy. His letter brings nothing but good news; he is the favourite of his colonel, who promises to procure him the very next lieutenancy that becomes vacant!”

“And are you sure of all this,” cried my wife, “are you sure that nothing ill has befallen my boy?”—“Nothing indeed, madam,” returned my son, “you shall see the letter, which will give you the highest pleasure; and if anything can procure you comfort I am sure that will.”—“But are you sure,” still repeated she, “that the letter is from himself, and that he is really so happy?” —“Yes, madam,” replied he, “it is certainly his, and he will one day be the credit and the support of our family!” —“Then I thank Providence,” cried she; “that my last letter to him has miscarried.—Yes, my dear,” continued she, turning to me, “I will now confess, that though the hand of Heaven is sore upon us in other instances, it has been favourable here. By the last letter I wrote my son, which was in the bitterness of anger, I desired him, upon his mother’s blessing, and if he had the heart of a man, to see justice done his father and sister, and avenge our cause. But thanks be to Him that directs all things, it has miscarried, and I am at rest.” “Woman,” cried I, “thou hast done very ill, and at another time my reproaches might have been more severe. Oh! what a tremendous gulf hast thou escaped, that would have buried both thee and him in endless ruin. Providence indeed has here been kinder to us than we to ourselves. It has reserved that son to be the father and protector of my children when I shall be away. How unjustly did I complain of being stript of every comfort, when still I hear that he is happy and insensible of our afflictions; still kept in reserve to support his widowed mother, and to protect his brothers and sisters. But what sisters has he left, he has no sisters now, they are all gone, robbed from me, and I am undone.”—“Father,” interrupted my son, “I beg you will give me leave to read this letter, I know it will please you.” Upon which, with my permission, he read as follows:

“Honoured Sir,

“I have called off my imagination a few moments from the pleasures that surround me, to fix it upon objects that are still more pleasing, the dear little fireside at home. My fancy draws that harmless group